Nothing really ends
by Last-Summoner
Summary: John thinking about their relationship with Ben. BOCKE, yaoi.


Nothing really ends.

Our relationship has always been very complicated, so complicated that sometimes I wonder how I could bear him that long. He was almost unbearable, I tried to remember at least one person who loved or even liked him, but failed. I could only think of single one who was loyal and trustful till the very end - that strange insane russian Mikhail, but he doesn't count, he was a goner.

At the same time, Ben was always needed, like an irreplaceable tool you can't get rid off just because you don't have another one...

He... caught me. Every time I think of the beginning of our affair, I can't choose another word - he really _caught _me. With his glance, and the way he jammed his lips, and his rare smiles, and manner to talk. Sometimes this thought offended and angered me, and I hated to be near him in those moments. But most of the time it didn't bother me, and I watched him carefully and allowed to catch me again and again.

Ben.

I liked the name Henry better - it sounded trustful. I remember those hatch days of ours - I could clearly see that he was wearing a disguise, but couldn't look under it, and that mystery drove me to him. I came to the armory every day, we talked, carefully choosing every word, and sometimes (maybe every second day) I touched him, and he touched me. His caresses were almost insensible, and mine were harsh and rough, and he was playing on that contrast, showing me that he _only answered, _and he wanted _nothing _from me. In some way it was handy.

Ben. He was handy, yet a real pain. Manipulating, using and changing figures, lying all the time - he seemed to be evil and cruel person, unreliable and cunning. When I was with him, I never could say if the idea or thought I got was entirely mine, and it drove me insane.

Ben.

Once, after one of our disputes, he said that we're alike. That we have more in common then I can realize. I told him not to compare us, and he only gazed at me, as if I'm a heretic that doesn't want to abandon his false beliefs. I hate that gaze of his - when he doesn't want to talk and only stare through me.

It's so hard with him, with Ben.

When I watched him playing piano, with his back straight and tense and his stare vacant and sincere, I thought that he's not the one he pretends he is. When he gave the orders to his people or to my people, doing his complicated intrigues, I thought the same thing.

Sometimes I wonder - what Ben looked like when he was a kid. Or a youth. I wasn't handsome and popular when I was young, and I'm not sure Ben was. But he didn't live in ill human society of the big noisy city. He was an Other, he was _surviving. _He was special among special, poor Other that was left behind...

Once after those thought I watched him sitting on his sofa and reading a book. He was clean and dressed in new shirt, and his round glasses caught reflection of the light. I felt those rare sentimental feelings towards him, and I sat besides him and took his book away. Ben looked at me questioningly, as I slowly took his glasses off. He stared at me, as if didn't believe I got the nerve, and I leaned down to his lips and kissed him. He didn't answer, didn't even close his eyes. I moved away, and he asked:

- John? - And it was hundred of half-asked questions in that simple word. "Are you okay, John?", "What's the matter, John?", "Why are you doing this, John?", "What do you want, John?". That annoying talent of his - turning every word he says in countless amounts of ambiguous phrases.

- Can I just kiss you, can't I? - I said, and, after several seconds of his usual hesitation, he answered, matter-of-factly:

- Of course.

This time he answered my kiss, and I again thought of him, almond fearing the gentleness and care I felt towards him in that moment. I slowly leaned to Ben, making him lay on the sofa. The Other embraced my shoulders and sighed shortly in my neck:

- This is a little unexpected, John...

I kissed his forehead. He smelled of soap, so unnaturally and artificially. I liked it when he smelled forest, and sea, and sweat, and dirt, and blood. Still, I felt just how dear this almost unbearable person was to me, I embraced him firmly, buried my face in his neck, couldn't hold down a smile - he felt it and kissed my temple. I've always liked the way he guessed so easily when, where and how I wanted to be touched. Then he took my hand in his, slowly traced his fingers down my palm, then entwined them with my fingers. He didn't smile, though. On his face he had one of those expressions I never could read. So we lied there, motionless, he neither pull me closer nor push me away, and I watched him watching me. He looked as if it all was a waking dream for him.

Every time I think of him my mind returns to this memory. I don't know why. That memory wasn't meaningful or important, I had a lot of other memories that can characterize him much better, that are much more vivid and all... But somehow I always return to that evening when I'm thinking about him.

Ben.

He had strange little habits, like walking barefoot. It had always made him look uncommonly, like if he didn't belong to this world. Well, he didn't - that's what I thought first. Then my opinion about him changed, but I didn't allow myself to think about it. I left him associating with something fantastically weird, and shut my eyes on everything pathetic that was in him.

I liked it when he had his little sentimental moments too. They were much rarer then mine, but still they were, and I don't want to think that he just played them. Still I know that one of them certainly was a fake - back in the hatch, when he tucked his face in my shoulder and said:

- Please, John. I am afraid, just like you are. Please, remember your promise. Protect me no matter what, as long as I can't do it myself. Remember, John, I believe you, - then raised his head to my face and placed a gentle kiss on the corner of my mouth.

I liked him much better when he stopped playing in fear and helplessness, but sometimes I think that in some way back then he was more sincere with me then anytime else.

Another moment - I still don't know if it was true or not - was after I allowed him out of the cellar and let him live in the house. He played piano one evening, something slow and quiet, and it reminded me of old musical automats that used to be in bars. I wasn't in a very good mood back then - I had a hard talk with James, we argued and he nearly drove me mad. I walked hurriedly into the house and fought a wish to slam the door. Ben stopped his playing, stared at me, then said:

- I had a bottle of red wine, John. If it still is where I left it, you can have a drink and relax.

I thought it was one of his sarcastic jokes and didn't answer. I fell into the chair, feeling totally exhausted after another troublesome day, and didn't notice that Ben came out of the room. After a couple of minutes he returned, as quietly as he left, with a bottle and a wineglass in his hands. He assured I saw that bottle was closed, opened it and filled the glass. Then he held out his hand with the glass to me.

- What's this for? - I asked, more by habit then really meaning it.

- Come on, John. We both know I don't want anything bad on you, - he said, his gaze finishing all his thoughts, as usual. He really cared. I took the glass, sipped. Hadn't been drinking wine in ages. He moved another chair to me so he could sit besides. So he did, sat with his arms crossed and his gaze wondering on me.

- Nice wine, - I said at last. I never liked it when he was keeping silence. He turned to the window on the opposite wall and said:

- You know, John... For all this years of my leadership I understood one thing. People are never satisfied. They'll find troubles everywhere, and they don't need a cause to be discontented. And no matter what, they'll blame you, for everything you've done wrong, everything you've done right, everything you've ever done or haven't done...

- Why are you telling me this? Is it an advice or something? - I'd already started to get annoyed when he sharply turned to me and said quietly, in the voice he told his very secrets:

- What I wanted to say is - the only people that matter are the ones who have always been on your side and by your side. The ones who care. Don't let the other ones get you down, John. They are not important.

- So, you hint at the fact that you're important? - I snorted. He smiled weakly.

- John, John, you still haven't understood, have you?

Then he leaned forward to me and kissed me on the lips lightly, and broke the contact before I could react. He remained still for a moment, his nose barely an inch away from mine, then moved away.

- If you want, I have one more bottle, - he said briefly and left the room.

I keep this moment tenderly in my memory. Now I understand what he meant back then, and this understanding feels my heart with warmth.

Ben. My Benjamin.

Our farewell was so pathetic. He said: "I'm sorry", I said: "It's fine". Neither he was sorry nor was I fine. He lied again, and made me lie as well. And neither I nor him were really bidding farewell - somehow I was sure that it wasn't the end, that we'll definitely meet again. That's why I actually let that _goodbye _to be so pathetic - because that was not our farewell. And because I had always believed that nothing really ends. And he, Ben… well, his mission is never-ending. I promised myself to meet him again, and hoped that he promised it himself as well.


End file.
